


our hearts will burn till our last days

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, PTSD, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s the silence that follows, the only noise his uneven breathing, that he feels forced to look away. He’s no longer shaking, but his bones ache from it, a dullness that’ll be there for the rest of the night—not that he’s going to be given the privilege of sleep—and the blood on his hands is dry. His own blood. And it’s funny, so hilarious how, even with that knowledge, it doesn’t remove the blood of those he’s murdered from his skin. </i>
</p><p>The Winter Soldier has been compromised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our hearts will burn till our last days

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @bvckysteve for betaing this, you're a star. ♥ 
> 
> No fluff here, I'm afraid. Although no archive warnings apply, this fanfic does include ptsd, & mentions of flashbacks and torture. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read any further.
> 
> This _is_ a repost. I think I was a little too hasty to upload it last night — I don't know, that's just how I roll.

The city of Washington is clouded with smoke, and The Winter Soldier doesn’t know how to feel. 

He ignores the stab of pain in his dislocated shoulder, and how it twists under the tight handcuffs that bound his arms together, made of a material specifically manufactured for what could only be for superhumans. There’s a tear down the length of his pant leg, exposing an open wound that seeps blood onto the ground as he’s dragged along, but none of the injuries can compare to the confused chaos of his mind. 

They’d found him within an hour as he’d attempted to find back alleys and dark shadows to slip away, but he’d fucked it up. He wasn’t trying hard enough; it’s usually a piece of piss, to secure a quick getaway within moments due to his expertise. He’s never missed the chance. He did, though. He’d try to find an excuse, like the flashes of mere memories and noise he’d been distracted with, or the struggle to suck in a single breath, or his arm feeling so much heavier after it’d been ripped from its socket, or because he’d stupidly followed what his gut rather than what his mind to him to do. To haul Captain America, or Rogers, or —

It’s too hard to decide what to call his target. Maybe it’s best to refer to him as his mission, (failed mission), just like his superiors had instructed. But he doesn’t have any superiors anymore. No more demands or orders.

He’s just The Winter Solider.

And he has been compromised. 

~

He doesn’t fight when they throw him in a cell. It’s pointless to fight them off, to even try, as he hasn’t a clue of where to go. Could forge a new life elsewhere, across the world, but even then, he doesn’t know where to start. It’s better — what he will do and stick with — to stay in these suffocating confines, almost out of self-preservation, instead of stepping out into, god, he doesn’t know what. Danger, probably. 

Rogers is on the other side of the double way mirror. He can’t see him, but he knows. 

And he can’t remember when he decided to call him Rogers. 

~

The memories are —

They’re too much, too overwhelming for such a short space of time. Each, in the form of anything from night terrors to just a flash when he closes his eyes, come half a dozen times a day. He wakes in cold sweats, the sheets scratchy against his thighs, and he heaves in dry gasps, but even as he calms, he can feel the split skin of his palms from how tight he’d closed his fists and this brings him back to reality.

He doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t want to know who Rogers is, or how they grew up together in his other life. It’s torture in itself; a painful, dragged abuse that’s only brought on by himself. He’s letting himself remember, be taken back to the memories that he doesn’t know whether to consider as old or new. It’s why he has red, angry lines along his arms, why he’s all pale and sharpened cheekbones, and why there’s the inexplicable ache in his chest that holds his battered heart, a weak excuse for life. 

It stutters against his ribcage when Rogers enters his cell, and asks, ‘Bed too soft?’

Rogers eyes him, probably intrigued as to why he’s in the corner of the cell, rather than the bed which, yes, is too soft, too — too fucking soft that he feels as if he’s being swallowed up, in, cutting off his air supply and he wants it, but he can’t because he feels obligated to stand by what he knows from his other life. He can’t, he can’t. 

He shrugs in reply. Rogers’ lip twitches. ‘Mine too. I could change it, if you’d like.’

‘No.’ It sticks to his throat, but when Rogers steps forward, it’s louder, almost an order. ‘Don’t.’

‘I’m not gonna hurt you, Buck —’

‘Stop. Just, stop.’ It’s stupid. It’s stupid and he wants to slap himself at the trembles that shudder through his body, the pathetic, wavered rasp of his voice. He’s shaking, a mess, his teeth clenched so hard he wouldn’t care if they break through his jaw. ‘Not you I’m worried about.’

He hates how open Rogers is with his emotions, hates how easy it is for him to read them. It’s too much exposure on both ends. He’s too open, to allow it to break into his conscience and slash all in its path. From just the flicker of pain across Rogers features, it causes his knuckles to turn white from dragging them along the concrete. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want this ton of regrets and fear stacked on his chest, to hold him down and break each one of his ribs until they stab his lungs, and he struggles—just struggles until he takes a final, painful breath. 

‘You won’t hurt me.’ He takes another step forward, the underline of caution more obvious when he tries to hide it. ‘I trust you.’

He snorts, a harsh, grim sound. ‘Trust me? Really?’

Rogers frowns. ‘Of course I do.’

‘You have too much faith and you’re putting it in the wrong guy.’ 

His lips thin out, defiant, and crosses his arms. ‘I know you think you’re not worthy of having my faith put in you, but you’re wrong. You’re so wrong. And do you know why? If you truly believed you were the wrong guy, you would have let me drown.’

It’s the silence that follows, the only noise his uneven breathing, that he feels forced to look away. He’s no longer shaking, but his bones ache from it, a dullness that’ll be there for the rest of the night—not that he’s going to be given the privilege of sleep—and the blood on his hands is dry. His own blood. And it’s funny, so fucking hilarious how, even with that knowledge, it doesn’t remove the blood of those he’s murdered from his skin. 

He doesn’t reply, not even when Rogers leaves. 

~

The next day, Rogers visits again, this time with a bucket of water and several rags.

He doesn’t resist, (doesn’t even utter a single word, because what’s the point?), and doesn’t know whether it’s because of the drain of his energy, or that part of him thinks better than to try and fight as he wouldn’t win, or even the chance of wanting some form of contact, as apparently sparse and as intimate it may be. It seems to be.

As the wet rag is pressed on his arm, the flinch that jolts up his spine is uncomfortable, and not from the pain that shoots across his shoulder, the splintered pieces of bone and the flesh that was torn open still trying to sew back together. It’s from how gentle Rogers is; it’s too soft, as if testing the fragile glass that surrounds him, and with one wrong move, a simple slip, he’d have to pick up the pieces. 

Rogers senses it, of course he does. ‘I can stop.’

He shakes his head a little too fast. ‘It’s — it doesn’t matter. Just do it.’

It’s a white lie. He’s tensing his body to stop the trembles, and his throat is tight, but he is fine. He is, but he’s just not yet familiar with the treatment of care, isn’t sure if he ever will be, but he won’t know unless he tries.

‘Tell me if it’s too much.’

‘Sure,’ he deadpans, ignoring the hidden meaning behind it. 

He’s not sure how much time passes, an hour perhaps, but he’s too unfocused to care—well, not exactly unfocused, but all his attention is focused on the soft strokes along his skin. He doesn’t speak, tries not to breathe, but it feels like such an out of body experience that it takes a moment for him to realise that he’s sucking in heavy pants, his lips flecked with spit. 

It feels pathetic, that Rogers is forced to stop, his hand hovering in the space between them. That he’s forced to grab his wrist and tug it back towards him, as if to prove he can do this. ‘Don’t stop.’

‘If this is making you uncomfortable, we can try another time —’

‘No,’ he says a little too harshly. ‘I need this.’

There’s a pang of guilt, but not time to muster up a failed apology. Silence follows, and it’s so stupid to think an empty room can be so loud, to hear himself swallow, the brush of his hair against his collar as he nods.

It’s unnatural, being so used to real noise, to the sounds he’s always learnt to desensitise himself from; the scratch of the scientists pen as he checks his vitals after coming out of cryogenic status, or the spark of electricity as the machine closed around his head, or even (and it’s impossible to his own ears), but the crackling of ice against the closed container, as it clings to his bones. The worst of all, though, is the echoes of his victim’s screams.

He almost attempts thanking him after when Rogers snaps him out from the trance by reaching up and wordlessly asking to clean his face. It takes several seconds before he moves, as he hesitates to give permission, but he wipes the dirt from his cheeks, the creases around his eyes and forehead, and anywhere he can reach without disturbing the small amount of trust between them. The water’s gone slightly cold, but he doesn’t complain; as strange as it sounds, it’s an encouragement to relax a little. He’s used to the cold.

Too soon, though, the tight sensation returns up his spine, just as Rogers sweeps down his neck, almost an instinctive reaction he’s made in his subconscious. Not out of any perceived threat, but because it reminds him, god, it reminds him that —

That it’s one of the weakest spots on the human body, and he knows from the way he’d so easily wrapped his hand around Rogers throat once. So breakable, how with a quick jerk of his wrist his target could go limp under his touch, and it hurts to know it. To have all this knowledge of how to kill your opponent, in various ways or on a scale of how painful it can be. It’s a flash back to the day on the street, prepared to cut off the air to Rogers lungs—how so fucking willing he’d been at the time. That’s who he’s been fashioned into. 

He doesn’t thrash out, and he doesn’t know if it’s the look on Rogers face, something he’s never had time to study before; Rogers knows what he’s feeling right now, a gnawing fear of what he’s capable of, and yet he stays completely calm, an expression that says he isn’t afraid of him. 

And for once, he’s glad he isn’t. 

~

‘He cares about you.’

It’s the Falcon guy, (Sam, that’s it; new friend of Rogers, and that is not an ugly tinge of jealously inside him), standing at the cell door with his arms folded. He hadn’t heard him come in, so it only confirms that he’s losing his touch. ‘I question that every day.’

There’s no reaction when Sam steps forward. Either he’s learnt to smother any response to threat, or there’s just no more threat around and he doesn’t know how to hold himself. ‘Look, man,’ he says. ‘I know you’re going through a hard time, more than that, and I can’t imagine what it’s like. You don’t need to tell me, hell, don’t need to trust me. But you know who you can trust? Steve.’

‘I —’ He stops, his mouth drying up. ‘It’s not about trusting him.’

‘Is it about trusting yourself?’ Sam guesses. ‘You gotta let someone in, let him in at least. Cause if you do, maybe that’s what will make you trust yourself again. If you don’t, Steve ain’t gonna try anymore, and that’s what worries me.’

‘He doesn’t have to even try.’ He keeps his eyes forward, ahead, at the wall. ‘I keep telling him not to.’

Sam smiles, followed by a short laugh. ‘It’s not that simple. He’s not one to give up so easily, especially with you, but it’ll happen soon enough.’ He shrugs. ‘You might find it hard to believe, but if the guy is on the other side of the window nearly twelve hours a day, you’ve gotta mean something special to him.’

‘I know all this —’

‘I know that you know,’ Sam says, and he’s kind of glad he’s interrupted. ‘I’m not trying to guilt trip you. But do you know? Or are you not letting yourself see past the fear?’

‘It’s —’ He stops, and questions whether he does know; or he’s being held back by the gnawing fear that chews on the lines of his stomach. He’s not used to fear, only adrenaline and the voice in his head that repeats the orders he’s given. Not this. Not the foreign sensation of a human. ‘I don’t know.’

Sam moves forward, and he lets him. Doesn’t trust him, but if the guy tried anything he could punch his windpipe so hard he’d stop breathing before he hit the ground. He watches his movements carefully, and Sam makes sure he approaches, with slow, cautious steps and keeping his eyes on his face every time he steps closer to make sure he’s not crossing a line. Before he knows it, Sam has a hand on his arm, only for a second, but it leaves a pressure behind, a touch that he can’t seem to forget even when he leaves.

‘It’s okay, man,’ he says as he leaves. ‘Nothing’s the same, I know, but don’t let the past drag down into the dark. You’re not alone, no matter how much you think you are.’

~

He wakes in an unfamiliar place. It’s dark, and smells so strongly of bleach that it burns his throat. As he presses himself against the cold wall, he realises his shaking; his arms buckle beneath him, his hand curling into a fist and dragging along concrete, and he remembers —

The dying flashes of violent nightmares are still there, at the back of his mind, and it only gives him a few seconds to recover and throw himself forward, to wretch and throw up his stomach full of last night’s supper. It burns his mouth, the acidic bile lingering on his tongue, and it hasn’t helped, the noise in his ears loud and shutting out everything else that may help secure his sanity. He asks himself how many times this has happened.

How many times has he remembered?

He remembers, he remembers.

His mission.

Kill — 

~

There’s a rough hand on his cheek, scratchy and raw against his skin. 

It happens so quickly that he doesn’t open his eyes as he does it, his hand finding Rogers neck and clamping down. He knows he’s succeeding when he hears the choked cough and a stuttered attempt of his name, but he ignores it, because it’s so easy, it’s been so long.

But it lasts for a moment, as Rogers flips them round with ease, his skull cracking against the wall. An arm is pressed against his neck, not enough to cut off air but enough to warn him, and he believes it, believes those blue, fierce eyes that stare back at him. Rogers sucks in heavy gasps, and his voice is strained and raspy, ‘Stop it,’ he growls, almost a plead. ‘You’re safe. You're okay.’

‘Am I?’ And it sounds so pathetic that he snorts, tasting blood from where he must’ve bit his tongue. ‘I don’t think I am — pretty fucked up if you ask me.’

Maybe it’s ridiculous to think, maybe he’s dreaming, but time feels as if it stands still. Blood slithers down the corner of his mouth, and he watches as Rogers wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, and he notices several things: how warm and comfortable it feels, the way his breathing hitches and changes, and how he looks up at the same time Rogers does.

Rogers licks his lips. ‘Bucky —’

He doesn’t let him finish, curling a hand around Rogers neck and presses his mouth to his. They taste of cheap toothpaste and there’s the hint of coppery taste from the blood on his lip, but he doesn’t notice much. What he does notice is the way Rogers tenses and pulls back, and it causes something sharp to tug in his chest. 

‘We shouldn’t,’ he says, his mouth red. ‘I wouldn’t want to take advantage.’

Shaking his head, ‘You’re not.’

And he stops him from replying with another, and after a second’s hesitation, Rogers returns it, his tongue flicking out to traces his bottom lip and it’s so strange, such a surreal moment to be kissed again like he hasn’t since the 1940s. 

There’s part of him that thinks this has happened before, that this isn’t the first time, and he doesn’t know to feel about it. Maybe he’s glad that he hasn’t made some huge mistake that could’ve been thrown back in his face, or be seen as a disappointment because he’s taken so much time to rekindle something so good; something that seems to be good, anyway. Either way, he doesn’t remember, so now he can experience it like it’s the first time, and maybe that’s a good thing, and maybe it’s not. But he does wonder how he could ever forget this.

But that’s a whole other story that he wants to avoid. 

‘You with me?’ Rogers asks when the kiss breaks.

He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I don’t want to remember,’ he swallows, ‘but don’t want to forget.’

Rogers only nods. They stay like that, pressed against each other. He wonders if this is what he wants, whatever this will turn out to be. He doesn’t think it’ll be what he’s searching for, something that he’ll ever be able to adjust to, all a punishment for the victims he’s thrown into the darkness.

He doesn’t believe he’ll ever have what it seems he once had. 

~

The next day he refuses any contact. 

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and feels he isn’t allowed. Even Rogers, with the memory of his taste buzzing against his lips and the weight of his hands on his neck, and he can almost, (almost, in the huge gaps of his mind), see the disheartened expression as he’s told of his refusal.

It hurts — it’s a blow to his stomach, a split in his skull, as it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

But he doesn’t deserve any good, doesn’t deserve the closest thing to happiness he’s had since being unfrozen. He wouldn’t trust himself to stay long enough to absorb the light of anything good, like Steve, so why would anyone else?

No, he doesn’t deserve —

~

A week later, and Steve doesn’t try to visit anymore. 

~

‘You can leave.’

He peels his eyes open, focuses on Rogers, and immediately feels the rigid, uncommon demeanour that he’s projecting. His arms are crossed, skin washed out and he’s looking anywhere but him. 

In the past, he wouldn’t have minded, but it’s different now, of course it is. His chest had felt tight whenever Rogers had made an entrance, or even when he has a passing thought of him. All because of that damn kiss that shouldn’t have happened, shouldn’t have spoken to Steve, or let himself see him on the bridge in Washington, let alone allow the guy into his head, triggering memories he hadn’t known he had. 

It’s then he realises what Rogers has said. ‘What?’

‘You’re free to go.’

He frowns. ‘Why?’

Rogers swallows. ‘You’re no longer a threat.’

‘To you people, maybe,’ he says before he can stop it, ‘but what about to myself?’

It’s true, because even though he’s lived through some of the decades, seen how the world has evolved, being brought alive purely for assassinations and missions, you don’t exactly have time to tour around. He knows he wouldn’t last five seconds out alone; it’d be like going out blind, with knowing that there are surroundings, but being completely useless when it comes to figuring them out.

And he could practise, let time take its course. He doesn’t know where to start though, isn’t sure if he wants to at all. He’s a mess, who wakes up sweating and screaming in the night, has thin gashes on his arms to relieve that pain, and the only memories that belong to himself and not this Rogers’ Bucky are of the hours of torture and the feel of a weapon in his hands.

‘I don’t know, Buck,’ Rogers says. ‘I’m here whenever you need me, always will be. Now, though, you want space, and I respect that.’

Hunching over, a grim smile curls his mouth. ‘Right.’

Rogers is next to him when he manages to lift his head, too close for comfort, really, but he needs it, (breathe, steady; don’t pass out.) ‘Promise me you’ll tell me if you need help.’

‘I don’t think I can do that,’ he says. ‘But I’ll try.’

He swallows whatever choked sound he’s about to make when Rogers kisses him, slowly, agonisingly soft. He doesn’t want this, except he does, but it’s so gentle — as if with any sudden movement he’s going to split open and expose all his vulnerabilities — except, except he’s already done that.

His throat feels thick and his eyes sting, and he blinks, but it doesn’t go away. All the shit and baggage hits him all at once, causes him to release a strained, half-whimper and half a livid noise of how pathetic he feels. That he’s foolishly fallen into what feels like a trap, exactly what he’d been trained to avoid, and yet he’s done it in the space of a month or two. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but that doesn’t matter. 

What matters is that he cares more for Rogers, for Steve, more than he should. 

It doesn’t last much longer, Steve pressing a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth before backing off. Steve attempts a smile, but fails, wavering and broken, and it’s then that he thinks he’s just made a huge mistake.

As he always does. 

~

When he’s released, the months pass quickly, too quickly, as if his life is moving without him. 

He’s unwashed, with lank hair and a beard that itches. With what he can pick out from the memories he has, he can hold enough skill to steal rations and sleep in closed cafes, just as long as he leaves in the morning, and he doesn’t really have a problem with living like this. 

It’s not a hard life, but it is a lonely one. 

~

‘Bucky?’

He flinches, blinks twice, a headache throbbing behind his eyes. ‘I —’ Swallows. ‘Sorry about your window.’

It’s cracked, from the force he’d used to open it, failing the sneaking part of sneaking in. He doesn’t know if that was what woke Steve, or if it was some superstitious shit and he sensed his presence. 

His poor excuse to explain his unexpected, (or expected, who knows) appearance is because he wonders how Steve is doing, not that he’s never felt so alone in his life, or that every night he still wakes up with flashes of his past — smoking outside a 40’s club, or leaning against a truck in some Howling Commandoes uniform, or falling, just falling into an abyss whilst Steve reaches out towards him. 

That he wakes up sweating, cold against his back, and a lump in his throat that he can’t force down with any amount of alcohol or smoke. 

They’re only few memories, and he knows there’s so many more locked away inside him, waiting for the right moment to burst into colour and movement. He doesn’t want anything or anyone to mess around in his brain again, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can take teetering on the edge of finding out more of his past.

‘It’s okay,’ Steve says, and he notices his in nothing but sweats. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Why do you have so much faith in him?’

‘I’ve always had faith in you —’

‘I’m not him.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m not Bucky.’

Steve comes up to him, sitting down in the chair next to him. He places a hand on his arm. ‘Maybe not all of him, but he’s in there. I know you are. You know, I had faith in him not because he used to beat up my bullies, or console me when my ma died, but when —’ He pauses, pondering. ‘When I found him strapped to that table in the HYDRA base, he came out alive, because he was strong. You’re strong.’

He snorts. ‘Your faith is stupid, you know. I’m not the guy you think I am, pal.’

‘I know,’ Steve says, and leans forward, close enough that he can taste the mint toothpaste of his breath. ‘I guess this will make me even stupider.’

When it happens, it’s just as harsh and passionate as the other kisses they shared, and he chooses not to compare them to those — if any — that happened before he became The Winter Soldier. He focuses on the warmth of his lips now, the pressure of Steve’s hand on his jaw, and the sensation of the gaping hole in his chest being stitched up just the tiniest amount. 

But then Steve slows it down, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. When Steve pulls away, he leans his forehead against his. ‘Stupid enough for you?’

A small smile fleetingly touches his lips. ‘You’re a punk.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughs, kissing him again. ‘Stay?’

He knows it’s becoming dangerously close to breaking all the rules he’d set for himself; to never fail a mission, or break under the pressure and accept help, or involve himself with someone — feel for anyone. But he has, and if this is what it feels like, for his heart to beat normally in his chest and the fear that grips him in a vice to loosen, then he wants it. He doesn’t want to be the person they’d made him into. 

Nodding, he reaches up to run his hand through Steve’s hair. ‘Okay.’

~

The rain pelts the window, sky brooding with grey clouds as he looks outside at the busy streets of D.C. 

If he really thinks, he can imagine the stories that are spreading around the city like wildfire, about how the ghost is no longer a ghost. It’s printed over most newspapers, sometimes pops up on the TV, but it’s okay, because he’s not so afraid anymore, not of those around him, and not of himself. The Winter Soldier doesn’t exist, nor does Bucky, but a man named James has taken their place.

And he’s not someone whose running from his fears, but chasing after them.


End file.
